Sadness inside for the truth that she hides

10th November 2013
Around 2.00 P.M.
Room

    Around the descriptions of the date above, I knew now that I was right. I was right about everything, and I was right about the part about when I look at people and I know what their inner feelings are before they even open their mouths. But hey, I've been thinking that that is a bad thing and I should stop it. Being the perhaps some small percentage of the world's population that has been able to do this, I do not consider myself unique. Unique is word you describe a three headed lamb with each head having two mouths and a three-pairing birth mark on their foreheads.

    I am a complicated man with a simple heart. That's all there is to it. These may not be the feelings I've shown to other people but hey, a man can have many secrets. And INFJs have more than you can imagine. They are like the solitary piece of Orihalcum in a mine of Quicksilver. You don't know what I'm talking about? Good, neither do I most of the time. Don't ask me what I'm writing because free hand writing is what I do best and I am doing it right now. What's an INFJ, you ask? Well, its an archetype of psyches that has been categorized by... a lot of psychologists and whatnot.

    The name of that categorization is the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBIT) that has been used for a long time it seems. Wikipedia doesn't say anything about that. Short story : MBIT categorizes the general people into GENERAL types. Imagine a plate of chicken chop, with nothing else. Just the chicken. Some people would think it's too simple and decides to go to the shopping and mall and buy some black pepper sauce in a bottle to spice things up a bit.  Some other people would think it's just nice, plain chicken and plain chop. Some other people would look at this dish and thinks to himself, "How much calorie would this have?" and eat it anyway because she's hungry. But some few people would look at it and thinks to himself "Chicken chops... chicken shops.... Hicken Shops... Hicken Shop of Weaponry... Hicken Glare of the Northen Wind with his best sorting of weapons that he had made himself... Hicken Glare who wrought the piece of blade that had destroyed the last of the dragons..." And he ends up eating the chicken while all kinds of stories appear inside his head like mushrooms until he doesn't have space at all for barely anything else and he doesn't even know it's happening. It feels like a curse if that happens.

    Long story... well the one before was long but this one is longer. MBIT is made up of two broad categories; Extrovert and Introvert. Extrovert means you are in the "real" world much more than the Introvert, who lives inside his head. Then there's more categorization. The way you make decisions, by perceiving (Intuition or Sensing) or by judging (Thinking and Feeling). Remember, though, that these are theories. And in theories you cannot really know a true definite answer. These are just guidelines for yourselves. I've long since really put honest trust in these kinds of labeling.  I hate labeling for one. It's like having a price tag on your personality and the world is trying to buy you as cheap as possible with rubbish bargains. The way I see these categorization is that it makes it easier for us to understand who we really are, and try not to feel bad about it. I don't feel bad about it.

     So, after sifting through the webs, I came to this website. CelebrityTypes is a website that takes the MBIT test a step further by giving famous personalities a personality test. Most are famous history-making people like Socrates, Plato, Hitler, Mahatman Ghandi or Roosevelt. Some are less obscure like Marilyn Manson. Whatever it is, there's a test that you can take on that page and once you done it, you would be generally categorize as one of the 16 broad categories. Congratulations, you have set a price on your toe. Now its up to you to increase or let it decrease. Want it or not, the world is like that. I may live inside my head, but that doesn't mean I don't look out the windows. I do. A lot of times. And it's very ugly outside. I don't want to go outside.
    
    I am INFJ and I do not feel unique. Trust me, for our kind, feeling unique is what we detest the most. About 7 years before, when I was in secondary school, I would've given anything to become like other people; fit, talkative, social, likable, handsome and so on. Instead, I became this... socially awkward (like "Hi... Erm..." socially awkward) with a complete suspicion that everyone is plotting against me. The world was evil and I was the victim. So, around when I was 14 or 15, I decided to make myself a hero. I did. A lot of times too. It nearly felt as good as sex would've been... if I know what sex feels that is. I didn't stop making myself a hero, except that... it became more than that. I started to write things down. Names, plots, details of the world and so on until it became second nature to me to just look at one thing, let my mind wander and boom, a novel out of nowhere. I haven't even gone to make it into a trilogy yet, so don't go anywhere. Eff why I, I did make a trilogy but... it became more than that. See what I mean by curse?

    Anyways, try and go to CelebrityTypes and take the test, it's in the left margin of the page, you can't miss it. If you miss it, you're blind and I suggest going to the Optimitrist and preparing several hundred dollars for a pair of concave or convex glass, held by plastic frames. Don't feel bad, blind people. A lot of people are blind actually. Blind about the truths that has been under their very noses... Such arrogance. And they call me ignorant. Butt-sniffing bastards. I'm not talking about dogs by the way. Just so you know. Ahem.

   Did I mention that INFJs are people who think Intuitively inside and Feeling outside? No? Well I am now. That either means I have a serious problem saying what I mean to say or not saying what I mean to say and making other people really confused of what I'm trying to say. There you go. Oh and don't go to chats and say that you are INFJs and that makes you feel good because you are the 1% of the global population. One percent of 6.9 billion is a lot. We may come rare these days but look at the world now... almost everyone has a smart phone with a touchscreen. Thirty years ago you would've paid more than 3000 dollars for a 500 MB hard disk. I'm not even kidding. 

    And as always... Look out for a guy named Hicken Glare for the next weeks of the month. I'm sure I'm going to think something up. God, I hate it when I think up stuff and I missed a floor from my room. Mind you, I went up an extra floor, not left one behind. And only realising it when I nearly went into "my" room. THESE AREN'T MY UNDERWEARS.

FictionPress

Yesterday, or rather today's earliest mornings, I was chatting with Rabbia on Facebook and you know what it's all about. I tried to find out what she likes the most, like talking about a specific topic or something, but so far... we just miss each other too much it seems.

But talking about me is not going to get far, so today I'm talking about this site I found. It is the equivalent of deviantArt for writers. Writers and roleplayers it seems as I tried to find out digging through all that stuff...

fictionpress.com is the place where you can post your stories, doubtless copyrighted to your name I hope, and I think it 's a good way for amuteur writers to try to get some feedback from total strangers.  Remember that long ass draft you did when you just needed to write something, like I am right now? Yeah, you can post some of it here (I say some because I'm still trying to find out how under the Light do they keep copyrights) and strangers will click and read through it, or a portion of it, and they will write reviews of it. If they deem it suits their styles.

Personally, the ones I've read so far has that beginner's style of writing. It reminded me of younger times when I tried to write down several words without seemingly to repeat them. One way or another, I'm probably one of them, despite me trying to improve further on. I felt at home there for a while until I came to the forums.

Oh the forums. Some of those threads are YEARS old and at least few of them are still active. The forums are divided into stories and general but if you're thinking to discuss an important aspect of writing, be ready to dig through all those words because MY WORD, there are so many roleplaying threads here! Seriously, guys, roleplaying is cool but can we get some words in about character personalization, plotting, improving styles, or dialog writing. I did stumble about this thread, comparing each other's dialogs and battle scenes, it was cool first until I noticed the date the thread was created. It was created 5 years ago. My sister is 5 years old. God.

Ah well, I felt at home right there and then though. Writing samples, reading stories, and even people that apparently enjoys a little bit (even if it's too much) roleplaying.

Oh and, I noticed a lack of a beginner's section. Where the heck is the Introduction thread?

Electric Feel

    The days are becoming shorter. It always is when most of it was gone to being with the local gangsters. Not really. They're not really gangsters, or loan sharks but his days with them are being seen as one of them. Most of the time, he watched the other guys do the dirty jobs. Most of it. Whenever he felt particularly filthy that day, there's always his brass knuckles. Those brass knuckles are what saved him most of the time when the days are just bad. That, and his disgust towards himself.

    He couldn't bring himself to leave them. There's always a reason. It has to do with this honor situation where you don't really leave them, you just take a vacation somewhere and when you feel it back again, you can go back. You're still part of them. The whole thing seems like a joke to him but the more days he spent, looking at the other guys burning someone's wife, or punching someone to the brink of death, or even just strutting about like they own the world, the more he realize he's being part of them. You can't just leave when you're part of something like this. More thoughts became from that single thought. Tonight though, he can't seem to think other than that one day.

    The house was burning. He was holding the matchbox. It all seemed reasonable before. The guy didn't pay up for what he borrowed from them. He's been warned three times and they don't usually go three times. You either pay up the first time, or there won't be a second time. The day was Thursday, he remembered vividly because Johnny Killer was premiered that day and he loved that series. That episode, Johny 'Killer' Bern had a job to take out a couple of villains who stole from the National Bank. The plot was the usual; hero gets job, hero finds clues, hero finds villain, villain took something from hero, hero took it back with revenge and completed the job in the meantime. It was a pure joke, straight from the studio.

    His family was in there. Burning to death or choking from all that smoke. The whole building was on fire and it seemed like a party with a bonfire in the middle. The other guys laugh histericaly while he stared at that fire, straining his ears for screaming. The guy had 2 kids, probably 6 and 8 both. A beautiful wife, it was strange the guys don't drag her out with him too. There was a lot of oil and there he was, the only one with a lighter. It all seemed like a dream. The guy was screaming, shouting for his wife and children while being gagged and kicked by the other guys. He stared at that fire long after the man was already dead from all that beating.

    Then, Hewlitt happened. The first company to bring Crysta. Some chemical crap mixed together with some hard to pronounce stuff that emits electricity. Actually emit the stuff, he saw on the tele the other day. Globally needed, Crysta was all out and in energy. You just buy the stuff from the Hewlitt branch. It sold like hot pies on a rainy day. Their factories grew like mushrooms. Even the other guys were into it. Mainly because it also emits a strong hallucination from the clouds of smoke the stuff emits. It wasn't toxic but who knows. Crysta was the meth of energy that the world desperately needed. But times change, and not long after 6 months, the city of Iskandar was transformed into an all out industrial area. Main occupant: Hewlitt.

   He didn't approve the use of the stuff. He never did. But he can see the transformation it brings. Business was business but business with Crysta is another matter. Soon, the gang was involved in the black market. It brings in more money daily and doesn't need much time to handle. They were rich once, then the whole thing collapsed with a new invention from that some company. Nicknamed, Juara, which means Hero. The over powered security robot was custom designed to track misuse of Crysta. Even the police avoid them. They roam around town, the Hewlitt practically own the town, and about 100 of those things could be seen, walking around with those blue eyes. Powered by that electricity - emitting stuff, those androids don't give up easily.

    Then news reached his ear like a thunder. Some guys died when they tried to over heat the crystal-like substance, in order to make more of that cloudy smoke. He barely reached the place before the authority got there. It was a mess. Blood was on everything and there wasn't even a hint where the body was before... something happened. Nobody was alive to tell the tale. Including one of his own. That guy wasn't the nicest but sometimes he helped him through times. At that time, that reason was enough to track down what happened. He dug for information about Crysta, traded for infomation. Twice, he nearly got caught by the Juara, trading some drugs for information. Apparently, the police got their hands on those things and made some adjustments. It was apparent that the mafia age was coming to an end.

    He got this contact with a cop. He hasn't had sleep for the last 3 days, not even naps. He was desperate to get to the bottom of this. One of his contact had successfully convinced a cop to reveal some really top secret stuff about the Juara, and the usage of Crysta. He found out that Crysta was made from acid or something, he can't pronounce it, but the other stuff what made him surprised. Originally, the substance was found on Mars, some space guys got ahold of it and brought it back to earth for study. Then those guys in suits found out that they can actually reproduce the stuff, taking like a stem from it and copy it again and again with some really scientific notations and procedures. He skipped that part. After heating the plant-like substance, they heat it at high temperature, making it 'sweat' or some stuff. The 'sweat' was what was mixed into acid and eventually it will clot into this piece of rock that emits light and electricity. They call it Crysta.

    That was before he met the cop. Now, he's sitting in a chinese stall, eating some kind of noodle with a spicy soup. His leather jacket was making him sweat but he doesn't want to reveal to the shopkeeper the numerous amounts of tattoo he has around his arms. People will see that too and some are wiser than most to call the police or worse, a Juara. The bright bulb, that lonely little bulb, was the only thing lighting the place up. Behind him was a road, filled with cars and people, so the place wasn't that dark. It was just in a corner and the light doesn't go well there. It was a wonder why he chose that spot for the meeting. Someone said the place had good food but it seems he lost his sense of taste.

    Not long after he finished halfway through the noodle, a guy sat slid into the stall beside him. He doesn't need to look up to know that his contacts was right. It was a cop. With that aura around him, and that sense of neatness. It was a good cop too. Probably was in the force not long ago, with some SWAT or something but now too old or too wise to be ordered around like a tool. He probably asked to be an inspector or something. He was wearing that bloody shoe. That dark and shiny shoe that every cop there seems to think it's stylish. It's not. Especially when you're wearing a shirt like that.

    "You're the guy? I thought so," the cop said. He was an indian. With that accent that rang out like he was singing while talking. But that small smile all indian has is gone from that face. He looks weary and old. Probably bored to death now that the Juara are taking up all his jobs. Probably has a grudge or two. "Didn't expect a Malay to get into this kind of stuff. Where's the payment?" Tch. He didn't lose his sense of ordering people like dogs though. He hated being ordered around. So, he slurped the rest of the noodle before meeting eye to eye with the guy.

    "I see the papers, you see the payment, ya?" he asked.
   
    The cop was no idiot, he gave credit to that. He knows a dangerous man when he sees one. And he was more than that. Cautiously, he stood up and took out some folded papers from his pocket. The trousers are slick, neat and he bet his last cent that it was ironed before he came here. The papers were a little crumpled but the information was there. He made no move to grab at it. He knew better not to.

    "The payment?" the guy said.

    He took one look at the papers and decided that it was real. Cops like that don't lie, even if the order of the day wasn't that honest. He slipped a hand into his jacket, felt for his left pocket. The other guy was readying into a stance, he can see it. He gave off a little smile, amused. Then he took out some Black Crysta, the pure stuff. These things emit double the amount of hallucination smoke than the regular ones but sucks in conducting electricity. Better, and safer. He practically lived on the money he made selling that stuff around. The other guy's eyes glitter like seeing naked lady in front of him, swallowing.

    "Good," he said and put the papers on the table, beside the bowl of noodles. "There, now give me that."

    He didn't even reach his hand out fully before it was snatched away. The guy was probably addicted to the stuff. Poor guy is dead within years if he does. Months if he doesn't regulate like the others. The smoke itself wasn't toxic but when it reached into the lungs and fused with your blood, the iron inside the blood loses to the stuff and if you don't regulate your treatment, your blood will lose that taste of iron and soon you may found yourself unable to breath, move or do pretty much anything else. The stuff eats your blood inside out. It was horrific but that's probably what happened in a lot of cases. No more blood, no more you. Simple as that.

    The indian guy left in a hurry, probably back to his nest. Soon, the chinese guy holding the stall came to him, asking what happened to him. He said the guy just left, and took his order. He was a full and happy man that night.

    Until he reached his car, started the engine, opened the air-conditioner, switched on the indoor lights, and took a look at the papers. There was a lot of notations here and there, markings. None of it makes sense except one part. That part made him read that same sentence twice, three times before he looked up.

    "Juara is equipped with the most advanced technology of modern times and the AI is based on a super-controlled part of the human race. It's brain is developed into an actual size of the human's and powered by life itself, a Crysta in it's heart core. But that isn't enough for the Juara programming. It needed another ingredient, a secret one that can make the Juara the most human-like response towards a lot of things. That is this: "

    "The human brain," he whispered the word. "A live one."

    He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and gulped down saliva. When he opened them up again, he was looking at a street corner, a dark alley where nobody would care about anything there, if there was anybody.  But there was somebody there. It looked like a boy. No, it's coming closer. There's something wrong with it. He switched on the lights and move his head forward.

    "Oh shi-"

    The silencer made two burst of twitch. Both the bullets took him at the temple, right at the head. He was dead. The culprit made his way to the car, pulled at the door, and shoot him twice more. Just to make sure. Then he reached inside, took the papers, now bloodied, took a look and turned away. The light on the car was still on, it's engine still burning. The culprit reached the end of the alley and ran. A smoke escaped the back of his head, now noisy with sounds of respiration, like a steam train. But it ran on forward, towards a factory that marked as 'Hewlitt'.

    It was 50 years after that when Iskandar City was renamed as Hewlitton. Crysta was becoming better and better and a new model of Juara came out, named Juara Runner. A smaller frame, almost boyish teenage outer layer and a whole new system to it. It was powered by Crysta, of couse, and every 30 minutes or so, a smoke of yet-to-be-toxic substance escaped from the back of it's head. Right about then, a 19 year old boy stumbled into an amazing discovery in his small secret cave beneath the city. His name is Tuah and he discovered what a dead man discovered 50 years before. He was not surprised.

It is times like these

where I just want to ask:

Why can't I sleep?
Why can't I play games?
Why can't I write?
Why can't I do a job?
Why can't I stop thinking?
Why can't I stop thinking about her?
Why can't I stop thinking what's going to happen?
Why can't I stop thinking I have to do something really important and be done with it?

Why can't I stop asking why can't I stop asking things?

My God. Seriously.

It's time like these where I just want to ask

Why, for everything that is within the boundaries of the sky and earth, do I feel like a bird with torn wings in an unlocked, open cage?

The world just went upside down in a month and here you are, still trying to sit on the sky, forgetting that the sky has turned into the ground and the ground has turned into the sky.

Get a grip on yourself. Final exam is 3 weeks away and here you are fumbling like an idiot. I'm probably going through one of those phases, but being a uni student just makes it damn more difficult to handle with.

Well... at least there's 5 more hours until morning.

How can tomorrow be so far away? I mean, really. All I want now is... dammit.

What have you done to me,  Rabbia?

Andyanne

Prologue

    The only sound coming from the dusty mansion was the rasping breaths of a mummified human-shaped tube, it's yellowing silk and cloth heaving once, twice and brought down again. 5 seconds of total silence and it heaved again, as if trying to test out his decaying lungs, trying to figure out what is happening and seemingly successful in his awakening. An awakening that he knows that he hated and relished at the same time. After 200 years being held up in coffin, embroided by sculptures, rubies the size of plates, saphhires that glittered like lions' eyes, and blasphemous runes that shout for mercy from unknown beings, he knew that he was alive once again.

    He hated being one of the living. Yet, the living can walk upon the world again and he has work to be done.

     The one that brought him out of his dead sanctuary was no necromancer nor a mage, but a group of gravediggers or adventureres as they want to call themselves. Even now, they still ventured within his elaborated home. A home that once he called "Duralumin." They are either dead by now or in the process of one, for Duralumin is none but a series of deadly traps, designed to let no one but only the deserved  and loyal to pass through the place.

    The mummy opened his eyes, and through the thick cloth, he sees nothing. He remembered now his own true name, and the names that he use to bring fear out of his rule. A rule that expanded for thousands of years. One of those name was King Garldrun. Although people call him the other name, a name that he didn't invent and a name that he doesn't know to be totally true or a bogus lie.

    Garldrun the Undead.

    He smiled within that cocoon of his. Reaching out to the power inside of him, the one that courses his vein, he lashed out with his mind and torn apart the cloth. He struggled to move but managed to sit up. Looking around, he felt the heavy air of the place and decided the first thing he will have servants to do, was to clean the place up. After all, a King is not one unless for his palace.

    A huge thud sounded from deep within the place, Garldrun whipped his head about, bones creaking and tendons strained. A series of shouts sounded, and the silence dropped like an anvil. Galrdrun knew his first dinner was served. His crusted lips turned into an arc. He was hungry. Very hungry. Two hundred years of being a mummy, and noticing it, tends to make one like that. He got up, and strolled into his home, all sorts of plan already forming in his head. He would reclaim back which was lost to him, and take the rest. Garldrun was a simple man, albeit meticulous.

*

 

    In another place, the sun was rising up as the wind picked up the scents of the coming spring, making the people of the bustling trade town of Skyhord expectant of the next month.  The cold was already melting away and business was picking up. Along the straight road that pierced through the humble town, a tower managed to present itself, its bricks felt old and the layers of plaster was peeling away to remind it's inhabitants of the age of the town. The first building in it, was the building that nobody knows what for, but a mead hall used to be there, until an accidental fire turned the place useless. But a thriving community had already taken deep root around it. They just wouldn't want to leave.

    Now, a man of age where he should be getting wife, or wives, was tinkering with a piece of locket, trying to pry it open but proving futile in his attemps. The frustration on his face shows the work unsuccessful for a long time. He sighed and slumped into his stool. His robe, made of leather and seemingly to amplify his form so he looks buffed, was dirty and looked unwashed for days. His thoughts are dragging in his brain, trying hard to figure out the meanings of the locket he had on the table in front of him. "Open the locket and I'll pay 2000 gold. I want it in 3 days." That was the order given to him by a noble south of here, in his arrogant and proud voice. But the mage knew that uncertainty marked the essence there. Whatever that is, that is none of his business.

    "Flames above, who in the nine circles did you steal this from?" he mumbled. A growing beard made his face look scruffy and unclean. His eyes wore black shadows to mark sleepless days. But what dragged him down was neither. For 2 days, he had forgotten about dinner and only one person managed to remind him of it. He felt guilty about not passing his times with that person and trying his hardest to remind himself that he is an important part of her life.

    3 rasping knocks on the door as the handle turned. The mage stood up and faced it, thinking to straighten himself up first but thought otherwise. Even if he try to, he looks like a dirty beggar on the streets. The door turned sideaways to reveal a girl, some years behind the mage, with a frown on her face. And the mage knew he was stuck between a hard place and a mountain.

    "It's been 2 days. Why don't you take a rest and at least eat something?" the girl's voice was sweet and sounded as if floating on the ears, albeit with a hint of worry and frustration. She was wearing breeches and a simple collared vest, leather and looks hanging on her shoulders. On top of that, an emblem that marked her as a Courier, an eagle gliding, was clearly shown on her loose vest. A small satchel was strapped to her waist, and a piece of paper was sticking out, with some flowers in it too.

     "Spring is coming and everyone's getting ready for Ol' Nunix. You remember the festival, right? Where guys your age should be seen dancing around with some girl. I was spinning some baskets for them in exchange for some money. And there is a lot of letters suddenly to be delivered," she said, trying to make a smile. The worried frown was still there. "At least have dinner with me this time. I'm done eating alone."

    The mage looked at his shoes, worn out and black. He tried to think up words. In his deep voice he said, "I need to do this work. With it, I can be assured of more dinner for at least months from now on. Andyanne, don't go."

    The door slammed in front of him. Angry footsteps followed. Another slam as the tower seemed to shook a bit. Something tumbled behind him making a metallic noise, and a click. The mage didn't register in his mind at first, it was filling with regrets. Then he slowly turned back, only to have panick filled his chest as he found no locket on the desk. He dropped down below and started searching.

    He stopped suddenly. Hands reaching out towards it. There it is, the golden locket, and it was opened. He took it in his hands and flipped it to see what was inside. It was a picture of a woman, black and white, with a smile as sweet as sugar candy.  A tingle of magick made the hackles on his neck rise. Slowly, he reached into himself and released the power in his blood, touching the piece of magic in the locket, bound in that smile.

    The picture moved. It seemed like it, then the mage concetrated and saw that the woman's mouth is moving, but no sound came from it. She was saying something, trying to tell him a piece of silence voice. Then it remained back. The bound magic was still there, but he can sensed it was somehow new again, like a room dusted after a long time. He smiled with a full teeth. I don't know what happened but thank the Divines it did.

    He slipped it inside his pocket, his mind blazing again. There is another problem he needs to face. And this one is far more difficult than the last. He thought up ways to make up for the long days he confined himself in the place. Then he settled for one. But first, he needs to wash himself. With a light heart, he picked up a wash cloth and went to the rain barrels.

    "Useless piece of lummox, thinking like an ox all the time, and always in that flaming room, talking to himself, eating all alone with his flaming work, and the flaming magic, leaving me flaming alone out here, piece of great hairy lummox he is. Well, he can flaming eat alone in that flaming room of his tonight. I don't care," Andyannne's furious mumbling continued on the main street. Those within earshot quickly raised eyebrows and avoided to get in her way. Even one of the Dun twins seemed to step out of her way, and not make eyes with her. The peddlers from the city out south howled its wares, and saw her. They seemed to lower their voices down a bit after that. The blacksmith, Master Ruffban, was oblivious to anything, but even he felt the fury and stopped for a while looking around, a piece of iron steel in his hands, bended to form something. "Fury of a woman is to look into the serpent's eyes with challenge."

    She found herself sitting in her usual spot, beneath a tree that overlooked the entire town. The tower which she called home, was usually the beacon that marked the place as Skyhord. She lived there for 6 years now, and the trade town was like the back of her hand, and she can pace the entire place blindfolded. For 6 years, she was considered to be fortunate to live in that place, with the mage. The town seemed to think it's fortunate. That was not her true home, though, for she came here with the mage when she was small, after her parents died. She tried not to think about it. Her memory before this place was blurred somewhat, since she was small and she was the one who buried it deep down inside trying to forget. Being a courier wasn't all that bad, and she was great at running with her figure. And it was fun, meeting with a lot of people. The money she get was worth the work.

    But everyone knew that she was rich, even though she doesn't show it. Everybody knew about her and the mage. She as lots of money. Well, lots of money for a commoner. A noble would've lots more but she was considered more adequately financed among the town folks. Some of the peddlers even know of this. The only piece of proof she has is the necklace on her neck. About 2 years ago, the mage had given it to her for her birthday. It was the only thing that she knows that is important to her other than the mage. At the thought of him, she exhaled outwardly, sagging on the tree. She knew he had done so much for her, and he probably doesn't deserve that kind of attitudes toward himself. But she refused to back down to that feeling. He left her alone to dine with only herself. She realized she just wanted to have a bit of attention from him. Her cheeks flared up.

    "Here," a hand appeared behind her, holding a cloak. "The sun's setting and the nights are cold," the deep voice somehow soothed her feelings. A delicious smell waffed up from him when he sat down beside her to look out over the town. Some of the peddlers are packing up, closing the stall. Some of them even had carriages to load their items into. The inn's Guard, Lum Hughin, was lighting up some of the torches. But the sky was clear and the moon's light is sure to be bright. A man, holding a stick with a ball of light, came from the other end of town. He hung the ball stick at the center of town, on top of a pedestal. The light shone a soothing yellow light.

    "He's not afraid of that thing anymore, is he?" the mage asked.

    "Why don't you ask him?" Andyanne sulked. He hug herself beneath the cloak. It was getting cold, and she doesn't want to give into the man beside her.

    "It's done. The work. I guess we can eat together tonight," the mage turned and in his hands was a big plate of pie. The crust was even steaming with warm heat. The mage inhaled and seemed to taste the pie in his mouth. "Mistress Fogturn was quite mad at me when I asked for this, saying it's too late and whatnot. Well, nothing that a bit of gold wouldn't solve. And a smile."

    Despite herself, Andyanne smiled. Mistress Fogturn, wife of Berrault Fogturn, was a plump woman, sweet on the outside and strict of the inside. Nobody steals from the bakery when she's in charge, and she is always in charge. But she do have a weakness, and that is however big or tedious the work is, she will do it. Once, a peddler asked for 50 breads for his travel companions, the woman chased him out with a roller, knocking him on the head, screaming how prepostorous was the request. But the next day, the peddler had 50 breads, and was happy, even if he had a huge bulge on his head.

    The mage conjured up a blunt knife and cut out a piece, handing it over to the girl, warning her of the heat. It was blueberry pie and even though it was hot, it was a welcome warmth. Winter may be ending but spring can be pretty cold here. She dipped a finger into the center and licked it. Her cheek turned red at the taste. Her favourite.

    "This is great," the mage said, with a mouthful.

    "Don't talk when you're eating," Andyanne smacked his shoulder.

    The mage swallowed. "You're getting busy nowadays, running back and forth. You know you don't have to do it, if you don't want to."

    "I need to do something to pass the time,"

    "Are the twins still bothering you?"

    "They're just being kind,"

    "Making eyes and that kind of smile is asking for trouble from me,"

    "Well, they do deserve some words on how to treat a woman,"

    "Oh, I'll explain to them how treat a woman. With a cudgel."

    Andyanne laughed a bit. The twins are always after her, and she knows that. They had been friends for a long time but soon enough, the boys will become men, and men are always like an ox trying to find guidance. She picked up the cooling pie on her lap and chewed. Mistress Fogturn never dissapoint.

    "Do I need to say sorry to you? I know I've been... less attentive to you. For some reason, there is a lot of people that needs a mage to do things. I'm no errand boy but the money will ensure our future. I should've paid more attention to you. Sorry," the mage said. His hands were on his lap, legs stretched out. The robe was still there, and it smelt of burnt things. His face was clean shaven now and no dirt was on it. His deep blue eyes, like deep beneath the ocean, was strong and clever. But a sense of toughness was in them too. He looked handsome with it, a strong and clever face, like he is always thinking about something.

    "Probably. If you give me another piece of the pie," Andyanne licked her fingers.

    The mage looked surprised. He smiled and handed over another piece. He went on to his piece too.

    "You know, I'm still trying to figure out what you did with this necklace," Andyanne reached inside her shirt and and brought out a cylindrical glass, held by frames. The glass was blue in colour but the line and frame was deep golden, almost seemed like bronze.

    "I didn't do anything to it. Well, maybe a little but nothing big," the mage said.

    Andyanne looked at him, disbelievingly. The other person took a bite and shook his head. 

    "Really. I did nothing much," he said.

    "I still don't believe you,"

    "Oh, cut me some slack, will you?"

    Andyanne laughed. Her chest was full of warmth and even though the cold winds bite at her face, she felt nothing of it. This is all she could wished for. The mage, her favourite food, safety and a memorable view. The mage. Her own brother beside her. That's all she needs in the entire world.

    "Alvuin," she whispered.

    "Yes?" the mage answered.

    Andyanne looked at his brother, noticed that she thought aloud. She shook her head and continued eating. She remembered the day when he was just like this. Always full of surprises, and when she seemed down or sad, he always perked right up. Seemingly to know what she wants, and when she want it, the mage was always there for her. She hoped, prayed to anything, that it will always remain like this. She couldn't bear the thoughts of losing her one own important thing in this world to anything. That's why when he went to travel, for days she couldn't sleep and worry filled the nights. Only 3 days later, he came back with a sack full of souvenirs from other cities and places. She smiled again at the sight of him, at him a tired smile.

    "Do you remember our parents?" the mage suddenly asked. Looking down at the town. "I tried but it's all a blur."

    "Me too," the girl answered, frowning. 

    Both her and his parents were supposedly killed, and they ran from the house before they themselves gotten into the same fate. They tried to remember their faces, father and mother alike, but the memory is not there. It's just not there at all. Like someone had wiped that space clean of anything.

    "Don't worry about it. I'm always here for you," the mage said. He turned and smiled.

    Andyanne melted and smiled back. "I'm happy to hear that," she leaned on his shoulder, looking at the bright moon and the activity down below, hoping with all her might that it will remain like this forever...